"hope This Email Finds You Well"

"hope this email finds you well"

how the email found me :

you’ve gotta be kitten me// [n.l.] prologue

summary: Neville decides to be a good friend, and finds himself volunteering to petsit Hermione’s cat while her and Ron go on their honeymoon. After Crookshanks manages to get into Neville’s greenhouse, he finds himself searching for a veterinarian to help the poor kitty with tummy problems. {Muggle!Reader}

warnings: sick kitty, mentions of animal hospital setting, fem!reader

word count: 700+

A/N: Okay so this definitely took way longer than I hoped it would. I live in Texas, so we have been roughing it the last week because of the storm. Hopefully ya’ll enjoy this intro to what I am hoping will be a 2-3 part series coming soon. I’m not sure when the next part will come, but I promise I will try my best to make it worth the wait. :)

“Neville, if you need anything at all just call us using the hotel number on the fridge or call Molly and she can help you figure out what to do. Oh, and the normal cat-sitter’s number is on the fridge if you have anything come up at work or-”

“Hermione, Crookshanks and I will be fine! I can tell he is willing to be a perfectly behaved chap for his favorite Uncle!” Crookshanks let out a less than enthusiastic meow at Neville’s assumption, clearly unhappy with whatever the man was implying.

Hermione let out a groan but was not able to say much more as Ron was pulling her towards the fireplace so they could floo to their honeymoon destination.

“ ’Mione, sweetheart, the cat will be fine with Neville. Now, let’s go before you start experiencing withdrawal over the damn thing!” Ron let out a forced smile, threw the powder into the fireplace, and pulled his bride forward. They disappeared in a cloud of smoke, causing Neville to let out a cough.

“Well, I guess it’s just me and you now, eh?” The cat blinked once, twice, then let out a hiss and strutted away. “Woah bud, don’t get too attached to me, now...”

*****

For the last 24 hours, Neville felt as if he had been walking on eggshells; If he sipped his tea too loudly, the cat would hiss. If he sneezed, two piercing yellowish eyes were trained on him. The only relief he had obtained came from his 8 hours spent at work which were now, to the brunette’s disappointment, coming to an end.

“Crookshanks? Ya still alive mate?” Neville dropped his keys into the tray next to his apartment door and slipped off his loafers.

When he rounded the corner, he felt his heart and lungs drop into his stomach. There lay Crookshanks, sprawled out on the carpet and seemingly having what one could only compare to as a total acid trip. The poor kitten’s eyes were big as saucers, drool was spilling onto the carpet, and his stubby little legs kept rubbing across the floor as if to recreate human touch.

“Bloody’ell, why’s it always gotta be me?” Neville slipped his loafers back on, and quietly managed to pull the cat carrier Hermione left behind from within his closet. “C’mere bud, I promise it’ll be a short ride-”

MREOW.

Long red scratches littered Neville’s left hand, and a surprisingly high whimper left his mouth. “So, I am guessin’ you aren’t taking it easy on me today?”

*****

After a long battle to convince Crookshanks to enter the cat carrier (during which Neville managed to use an entire bottle of catnip spray), Crookshanks was finally contained. Neville had decided against calling Hermione and instead called their usual cat-sitter to ask what vet to bring the loopy cat to.

“Well, I’ve never taken him to Hermione’s vet before, but I can text you the number. Her clinic is down the road from the Diggory’s house, so it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Thanks so much, Anna, I’ll be sure to call you if I need anything else!”

The clearly unamused teen hung up, and Neville decided it was time to move the carrier into the car. Neville, having never owned a cat, had no idea how to put the carrier into the vehicle safely; As a result, the carrier had been heavily covered in 2 seatbelts that were all but knotted around it.

Throughout the whole drive, Crookshanks meowed nonstop. The cat clearly wasn’t a fan of cars (of course, it may have just been that the car belonged to Neville). When he finally pulled up to the vet, he was surprised at how a place he usually thought of as a location for goodbyes looked so peaceful. An elderly woman holding a small chihuahua sat next to the glass door, and a box of treats labeled “take 1 :)” sat on a small stool nearby. As he stepped through the door with the cat in tow, a woman in scrubs behind the counter turned to greet him.

“Hi sir, how may I help you today?”

Neville’s heart leapt into his chest, and he stammered complete nonsense before settling on the words “the cat ate one of my houseplants”.

“Okay sir, fill out these forms and I will bring you into the exam room shortly.” A warm smile was the cause of Neville’s immediate destruction, as he went red in the face and nodded dumbly.

How in Merlin’s name am I gonna get through this?

Every Part of You (tasm!PeterParker x Reader)

Summary: The phone rang again and you took it in your hand, seeing Peter’s face grinning up at you, tongue stuck out between his lips. For a moment, your finger hovered over the button to answer the call, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, instead throwing the device across the room. It didn't ring again. — or, the one where you have a panic attack & Peter is there for you.

Words: 1.5k

Notes: anxiety and panic attack — please read with care; some cursing; negative self-talk, fem!reader, intense feelings. please be kind to yourself if you read this & please don't read it if you are not in the right space to do so. anxiety and panic disorders are different for everyone—this is based on my own experiences and may not represent your own experiences living with anxiety and that's okay and normal. take care of yourselves, loves 🌻 written for some lovely pals who requested this topic xx ily

Every Part Of You (tasm!PeterParker X Reader)

The squirrels had gotten into your window garden again, telling gnaws in the leaves of your basil plant a conspicuous giveaway. Normally, you’d be cursing the fluffy devils, swearing up and down that if you ever caught the little bastards in the act you’d go medieval.

But you didn’t exactly have time to imagine your revenge or mourn your chewed up herbs as you towelled off your hair and began preparing for the date you and Peter were set to go on that evening. Plus, the excitement you felt buoyed you past the point of anger, your feet nearly gliding along the carpeted floor of your bedroom as you busied yourself with hair and makeup and the always daunting task of picking the right outfit.

It had been a few weeks since you and your boyfriend had gone on a proper date, not that you minded. The nights you spent sprawled across his lap while you battled it out on the XBox were the only thing you needed. But Peter had been busier than usual with what you playfully called his after hours job, a flood of some new drug making its way across the dimly lit alleys and back rooms of New York. And you’d been focusing so intensely on your applications for grad school that you’d hardly gotten a full night of sleep in a week. So you’d both agreed a night out was in order, and Peter would be meeting you at that gorgeous Italian joint that he’d taken you to on your second date.

You glanced at the clock on your bedside table, its neon red letters catching the breath in your chest, stopping you in your tracks as you moved around your bedroom, half-dressed and hair damp.

You were going to be late.

A surge of cold energy made your stomach somersault and you grit your teeth against it. You could hurry, maybe just throw your hair back with a headband?

Those stupid squirrels—if you hadn’t had to spend time worrying about them—

And the subway was always running behind this time of day. You’d end up having to stand, squished between strangers and too warm, sweating and jostled around.

And you still wouldn’t be on time. Because why would anything ever go right? Why couldn’t you do anything right?

Dread crept up your spine, flexing its fingers around your lungs and making you wonder, for a moment, if you were dying, the sudden overwhelming weight of mortality crushing you.

No. No. No no no.

You closed your eyes, a tightness building in your chest, and when you opened them, it was as though you were seeing the world through a fishbowl, distorted and grotesque. You felt a cold sweat prickle at the back of your neck, inexplicable fear bubbling in your stomach. You bit your lip, turning around once in place, pinching your wrist to try to focus on anything other than that awful little voice that had begun worming its way into your ear.

You knew there was nothing to worry about. It would be okay if you were late.

But it would ruin everything.

No, it wouldn’t. You tried, truly you did, to force the thoughts you knew were ridiculous out of your head, but your failure to do so only made you more frustrated, more disappointed. Your nails dug into your palms, tiny crescent moon shapes appearing under the pressure.

All the planning Peter had done, for nothing.

Everything seemed to blur and your legs slowly buckled, your body giving you enough time to fall gently to the floor before you hugged your knees up to your chest. Still, you heard whispers, your brain betraying you as it cruelly lashed you with hissing thoughts.

Your nail polish is chipped. Your shirt looks hideous.

And you should be studying. Kiss grad school goodbye. You’ll never get in.

You haven’t called your parents in a week, that’s awful. After everything they did for you.

You are nothing.

You were falling, falling, falling, slipping under the waves of your own insecurities until they blanketed you like an unforgiving, crushing rockslide.

You will never be enough.

Peter is too good for you.

You will never be loved.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, pushing hard to try to distract yourself from the whirl of thoughts in your head, from the tangled knots in your stomach. You lowered yourself onto your side, a sob wracking through your chest.

Peter…

With effort, you reached up for your phone, on the bed above you, fingers trembling, dropping it twice before you managed to tap on Peter’s contact information.

You’ll only make it worse by calling him, idiot. What are you doing?

It rang once. You hung up. Tears now fell freely from your eyes, your chest tight as you tried to suck in air from a room that was growing smaller and smaller, its walls closing in around you.

Then, your phone rang, a cheery sound that cut through the buzzing in your ears. You ignored it, allowing it to go to voicemail. You couldn’t talk to him, not now, not when you were so broken.

So pathetic, upset over literally nothing.

Ruining Peter’s night over literally nothing.

The phone rang again and you took it in your hand, seeing Peter’s face grinning up at you, tongue stuck out between his lips. For a moment, your finger hovered over the button to answer the call, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, instead throwing the device across the room.

It didn’t ring again.

It might have been five minutes or five hours—time slipped by agonizingly slow and all at once—before you heard clambering outside your bedroom window, the sound of someone prying it open and falling with little grace onto your floor.

“Hey ladybug! I’ve been tr—”

You’d known it was Peter even before you heard his voice die in his throat. For his part, he’d been so worried that you’d called him and then not answered he swung over to your place in record time, heart hammering in his chest.

It took him a breath or two to fully take in the scene before him, your form curled up on the floor, shaking with silent sobs.

Shit. He knew what was happening.

Peter was by your side in a second, close enough to offer his hand, far enough to allow you space. You looked up at him with bleary eyes and he smiled weakly.

“Hi beautiful,” he whispered, “I’m here.” He saw the fear in your eyes, the quivering of your lip and his chest constricted. Still, he knew he had to focus on helping you. “You’re having a panic attack, Y/N.” He paused, allowing you to digest his words. When you nodded almost imperceptibly, he continued, “You’re gonna get through this, yeah? It’ll all pass and I’ll be here. Now, you gotta tell me, love, what are five things you see?”

Peter’s voice was warm and soft in your ear, much kinder than the voices swirling in your head. You tried to focus on his words, on his face. Swallowing thickly, drawing in a deep breath, you began to answer. “You,” your voice was shaky, but Peter smiled encouragingly.

“Good, what else?”

“The floor. The bed. Those socks. My hands.” Each item listed gave you a moment’s focus.

“That’s my girl,” Peter encouraged you, still keeping a space between you, “Now four things you can touch?”

You reached for his hand and he freely gave it, allowing you to wrap your fingers tightly around his own but keeping his grip loose.

“Your hand,” you whispered. Peter nodded. Your free hand moved up to touch your cheeks, feeling the heat of your skin and the dampness of your tears there. “My face,” you continued.

“Yeah,” Peter smiled, “Your sweet face. What else?”

Time began to settle into its usual rhythms as Peter helped you ground yourself, shift your focus, bringing you out of your head. The bedroom took on its normal appearance, walls no longer falling in around you, objects once again sharp-edged.

Before you could open your mouth to apologize, Peter was rubbing a pattern on your knuckles. “Can I hold you?” he asked. In response, you pushed yourself up and closer to him, falling into his arms as your head met the firm cushion on his chest.

“I’m sorry, Pete.”

“Don’t apologize, Y/N,” Peter kissed the top of your head, “It happens. It’s normal. Today it’s you, tomorrow it’s me, yeah?” You nodded against him and he pulled you closer.

“How about I order us a pizza?” he asked, “We can eat it in bed?”

“Yes please,” you whispered, laughing lightly as Peter picked you up and set you amongst the silky softness of your bedsheets. You watched as he grabbed the phone from his back pocket and called the pizza place across the street, watched the way his lips moved as he spoke and the way his fingers played with the zipper of his hoodie as he idled and the way he kicked off his Chucks and curled his toes, clad in mismatched socks, into a stretch.

You weren’t perfect. Neither was he. There were parts of both of you that were sometimes a little worse for the wear, but what was loving someone if not sinking deep into their skin, replacing their hurt with your love.

Taglist: @v1oletvenus // @violetrainbow412-blog // @veraocruel // @morgane–stark // @frannyyy03 // @nervouslaught3r // @alijulia87 // @kdatthecastle // @di4na // @infp-t-rhi // @dreamer7black // @plutoneu // @equivocalshit // @yodelingzavia // @pinkybee926 // @where-is-my-oat-milk // @lia-andari // @multiple-boxes-of-earthworms // @starkovsmarvel // @lucyysthings // @panicattheeverywherekid // @earthgirl616 // @huhurrr-r // @astoria-reads // @schmuckyschmarnes // @mypalbuck // @spider-starry // @theupsidedownkiss

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